Growing Pains
Behold the undergraduate
A most amusing fellow
In all his jesting up-to-date
His sense of humor is so great,
His modern wit so mellow,
That no quip serves him lest it be
Rich in originality.
Assured of overwhelming odds,
Seizing the freshmen's persons,
Indelibly he daubs these clods,
To waken mirth in men and gods.
(Saving a few McPhersons
And other members of their race
Who have of humor, not a trace.)
The softier sort of joke that serves
Dull age - the quaint or quizzical
Gains his contempt, as it deserves;
Mere wordy wit gets on his nerves;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Birds, Batsmen and Bowlers
The throstle now in English lanes
Bids Summer strew her dear delights. . . .
But we, intent on cricket gains,
Watch well our valiant willow knights.
With eager eyes on cabled news,
We watch each bravely mounting score;
With ears half frozen, we refuse
To go to bed; but crane for more
From out the ether, as we sit
And 'listen-in,' tho' midnight's gone.
While glorious centuries they hit
(And if it isn't Bradman, it's Ponsford;
and if it isn't Ponsford, it's Woodfull;
and if it isn't Woodfull, it's McCabe;
and if it isn't McCabe, it's Chipperfield;
and if it isn't Chipperfield -)
Gosh! Can this sort of thing go on?
Our hope lies not alone in Don;
Others remain to carry on.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Eastern Shrike-Tit
I am brightly alert and exceedingly pert,
And my livery's easily seen;
With a bright golden breast and a black-and-white crest,
And a back of indefinite green.
A conspicuous bird; and, I give you my word,
I am neither incautious nor shy.
Native wit may be read in the cock of my head
And the glint in my shrewd little eye.
'Ho, knock at the door, knock at the door,'
I shout from the top of a tree.
The Bushland's soprano, but never 'piano':
'Fortissimo' ever for me.
But my repertoire's long; and I've many a song,
When Spring is abroad in the land;
And, whatever my call, 'tis the clearest of all,
And as sweet as the best in the band.
I take life with zest; and, when building my nest,
Then the scientist wakens in me.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Kilmore
Kilmore cares not who comes nigh.
But, with a calm, incurious eye,
She sees the swift cars speeding by,
Then turns again to labor.
She is content to plod along.
With now a sigh, when things go wrong,
And now a smile and now a song
Or gossip with a neighbor.
Her mind dwells often in the past,
The roaring days that could not last
When men might travel not so fast,
And all the world was bigger.
She saw the coaches clatter down
To pause at her important town
With loud-voiced venturers strong and brown,
And many a bearded digger.
She saw the eager traffic flow
Upon the road to Bendigo,
With talk of many a golden show,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Battler
'Could you give me a bite to eat?' said he,
As he tarried by my back door.
And I thought of the dull, lean days that be
As I glanced at the clothes he wore:
Patched in places, and worn and old,
Yet cosy enough to fend the cold.
And I caught the glint of his gay blue eye,
Sure sign of his slogan: 'Never say die'.
'Could you spare me a trifle to eat?' said he;
'For it's tough on a man these days.'
Then, somehow or other it seemed to me,
Some trick of his voice, or ways,
Stirred half lost thought. But I let it go,
As he said that his tea was 'pretty low':
And his sugar-bag, too, was 'well-nigh out'.
'Tho' I'd hate', he added, 'to put you about.'
'Could you do with a couple of chops?' said I.
'Some eggs and a ration of bread?'
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Confidential Canberra
Nay, Mr Speaker, let the ideal stay,
The picture that voters have in mind
Of Solons in debate far leagues away
Deep in the problems of poor humankind.
Here where the Cotter wends by verdant banks,
Let them imagine eloquence sublime
And for those blessings offer grateful thanks,
And vote for us again when comes the time.
Never the real! Ah, let no listening 'mike'
Whose ear ubiquitous within the house,
Gathers too truly what debates are like
When Ministers grow hot and members rouse,
When shouts across the floor fly back and forth
And loose tongues wag with little thought for care,
When words released in unconsidered wrath
Are flung regardless to the ambient air.
Think, Mr Speaker. All that Canberra means
All that it typifies is here at stake.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Kick
First I tried a Dry Martini;
But found not one teeny-weeny
Semblance of a kick in any kind of this.
Then I sampled a Manhattan;
But 'twas much the same with that 'un;
And as impotent I found an Angel's Kiss.
So I drank the menu thro';
Side-car, Bronx and Gin-and-Two.
Such innocuous concoctions left me sad.
And I yearned with eager yearning
For a cocktail, sudden, burning,
That might give a man a jolt and make him glad.
Then a fellow, somewhat seedy,
Down at heel and seeming needy,
said, 'If it's a kick you're seeking, come with me.'
So we went into a garden
That to me seemed partly Arden,
Partly, Eden; and we sat beneath a tree.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Fair Warning
Let 'em come, by gum! That's all I say.
Let me see one of 'em up this way,
With their sacks a-back an' their walkin' boots
Low neck, short-panted hikin' coots
Flingin' their fags in the brambles here,
Same as that other one done last year.
He might just once; but he won't no more.
I'll nail his hide to the cow-shed door.
A mile o' fencin' and two good hust
All thro' them an' their lighted butts.
Patronisin'? You're too dead right.
These city fellers is awful bright
Three good huts an' a mile o' fence!
'Tisn't so much me own expense;
Three mile o' forest gone up in smoke!
Well, ain't it enough to nark a bloke?
The worst they done was in ninety-five.
Poor ole Ben Bray, he'd still be alive
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Accorjins
Where have the old accorjins gone?
I was askin' the coves at the Show;
Matt from the Mallee an' Dandenong Don,
An' a score of the fellers I know
Ole fellers, like me - an' they're missin' 'em sore;
For this wireless, it never makes up
For the merry ole music we knowed of yore
When Brindle was a pup
As they puts it
An' Bravo collared the Cup.
Where are the old accorjins now
Like me father used to play?
Times when we rested from harrers an' ploughs
An' we made rare holiday.
Or Accorjin Alf, poor half-wit coot,
To the bush dance used to come
An' beat the time with his hobnail boot,
Like the top of an big bass drum
'Ladies' Chain!'
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Mid-Winter Monody
There's a bleak, black world without,
And the rain falls fast;
And the wind, with a whine and a shout,
Blows buffeting past
To wail thro' the tortured trees,
With cold wet breath,
Like a choir of dank banshees
Foretelling death.
I sit by the fire and I now,
And I juggle with rhymes.
Oh, the ways of our world grow odd,
And the trend of our times.
My tired eyes roam the news,
These columns tell
Of earth and its warring views,
And I sigh, 'Well, well!'
Idly I turn the page;
And I ponder then
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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